


By This Meeting

by Jedi Amoira (Darcerenity)



Series: DAO Fic Fragments [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darcerenity/pseuds/Jedi%20Amoira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair is approached by the third and final Grey Warden recruit, who isn't much like what he was expecting. They make a couple of detours on their return to Duncan and end up getting a head start on cultivating a feeling of brotherhood.  A DAO Fic Fragments fic, also on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Beauty of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> "In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge. The young they keep out of mischief; to the old they are a comfort and aid in their weakness, and those in the prime of life they incite to noble deeds." -Aristotle
> 
> Once again, it may be helpful to know that in this particular story arc, Jory accompanied Duncan to Highever, but not to the castle. Jory never entered the castle and never saw Elan. Duncan sent him to Ostagar w/ Fergus, carrying a message to Alistair. This was before the attack on the Castle, of which Alistair is completely ignorant.  
> ____________________________

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elan meets a fellow Grey Warden who may possibly become a friend, and in which Alistair talks nonsense and tries to figure out just who he is meeting.

The guard had said Alistair was to the north of the mage encampment, and Wynne had mentioned two Grey Wardens heading that direction, though she'd specified the destination of only one, so Elan continued walking.

She strolled up a flagstone incline into an enclosure that had once been a building. The sound of voices caught her attention, and she turned toward them, east up a second incline.

Two men were standing there.

"Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!" one of the men shouted. He was on the younger side of middle age, with dark skin, rough dark hair and a petulant expression. Elan had already begun to associate robes like the ones he wore with being a mage.

The other man...well...the very sight of him was enough to bring her up short.

The late afternoon sun slid over him like a caress, illuminating him almost as if the light came from within. His short, rumpled harvest-gold hair gleamed about his head like a halo. He held himself with a casual grace, arms crossed carelessly over his impossibly broad chest as he tilted his head back to regard the mage.

"Yes, I was harassing you by delivering a message." There was an open, easy humor about his face and a warm, irrepressible humor in his voice that appealed to her. In the oddest way, he reminded her a bit...just a bit...of Fergus. The resemblance went no deeper than his teasing confidence, but at the moment, that was enough to make her feel both comforted and more than a little homesick.

"Your glibness does you no credit," the mage snapped.

Alistair glanced over the mage's shoulder, seeking an escape route, and found himself locking eyes with a girl standing in the shadows at the edge of the enclosure. He never saw her coming. He certainly hadn't heard her, which was more than a bit of a surprise, given the amount of noise the stout soles of most boots could produce against the flagstone foundations of the ruins.

The girl looked him straight in the eye, obviously registering and acknowledging his awareness of her presence, but if he'd been hoping she'd demand his attention and extract him from the situation in which he found himself, it seemed he was destined to be disappointed. If anything, she seemed interested in the proceedings. _Great,_ Alistair thought with a wry sigh, _just what I need, someone to enjoy watching me squirm._

"Enough!" The mage shouted, "I will speak to the woman if I must! Get out of my way, fool!" He stormed off.

Alistair turned to the girl still waiting silently just inside the stone archwork. They regarded one another expectantly. Alistair knew what he wanted...he wanted her to explain why she seemed to be looking for him and what it was she wanted. What she might expect from him, on the other hand, that was a mystery...not that he wouldn't be willing to oblige if he could.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he said brightly, giving her an opening.

"I know exactly what you mean," Elan said. She wondered if he could hear the sharp, bitter edges underlying the wry surface of her tone.

It's like a party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands," Alistair suggested, sounding for all the world like a naughty little boy faced with the prospect of some particularly amusing mischief.

Somehow the impression soothed the aching corners of Elan's battered heart. She wondered if he'd intended his words to have that effect.

"That would give the darkspawn something to think about," he concluded, sounding utterly self-satisified. The faint twinkle in the depths of his warm brown eyes made Elan chuckle slightly in spite of herself.

"That argument I saw...what was it about?" she asked, just as he had expected.

"With the mage? The Circle is here at the king's request, and the Chantry doesn't like that one bit. They just love letting mages know how unwelcome they are. Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a templar."

"That would be awkward," Elan agreed. She hadn't been aware a templar was the sort of thing you stopped being, but she supposed now probably wasn't the time to ask.

"I'm sure the Revered Mother meant it as an insult—sending me as her messenger—and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we're all to cooperate and get along." Alistair sighed. "Apparently, they didn't get the same speech. Wait, we haven't met have we? I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?" he continued skeptically, beginning his nefarious plan to find out who she was and what it was she wanted.

She snickered. "Would that make your day worse?"

Alistair scoffed. "Hardly, I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given second."

"You must be Alistair," Elan said. She understood now why Duncan hadn't bothered telling her how to recognize Alistair. This man was Alistair because he simply couldn't be anyone else.

"That's me," he agreed, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He didn't recognize her, which had to mean he'd never seen her. If he'd seen her, he'd remember. "Alistair of the Grey Wardens, at your service. Did Duncan mention me? Nothing bad I hope?"

"Uh," Elan mumbled, feeling awkward. "No." _Nothing good, either. Just your name, really._

Alistair didn't notice. He was thinking.

If Duncan had mentioned him to this girl, that had to mean she had spoken to Duncan. Which was a bit surprising, really, as he hadn't really expected Duncan's return for another day or two at the earliest, something that had caused him no small amount of worry when he realized how quickly a decisive battle with the darkspawn seemed to be approaching. But, it couldn't be helped. Duncan needed recruits, and recruits had to be tested...

The last Alistair had heard, Duncan had obtained permission from the Teyrn of Highever to test his Master at Arms, a man by the name of Ser Gilmore. By all reports, Gilmore had harbored an ambition to be approached by the Wardens since childhood, when he had been greatly impressed by the widespread tales of the order that swept Fereldan as a result of their reinstatement by King Maric. But at the time he'd dispatched his letter, Duncan had not yet had a chance to speak with the man himself.

All of which seemed rather moot, as whoever this girl was, she wasn't a man by the name of Ser Gilmore, that much was certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In the beauty of the day" references a poem called Bread and Roses.


	2. Bread and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which at least one person at Ostagar is thinking with their stomach.

Duncan's message had mentioned a girl, come to think of it.

The daughter of the teyrn was rumored to be a match for Ser Gilmore, quite capable of giving him a rigourous bout even when he was accompanied by her brother, Fergus. In short, the teyrn's daughter was as fierce as any woman in a family renowned for generations—centuries, even—of fierce women. Or so the adoring villagers insisted.

"You must be Duncan's newest recruit, then?" Alistair said doubtfully, testing the theory.

Duncan had added in his letter that even had the teyrn been amenable to his daughter's recruitment—which he most decidedly wasn't, short of conscription—the girl—though flattered by Duncan's interest and even cordially intrigued by the nature of the Wardens—professed herself unwilling to leave her family...

So this girl was hardly likely to be that one...particularly as she looked nothing like any noblewoman Alistair had ever seen, nor did she look in the least like the sort Alistair would call fierce.

Unlike that of any other noblewoman he'd encountered, this girl's hair was anything but elaborately done—it didn't even look particularly clean. It also looked as if someone had taken a dagger and hacked at it a bit indiscriminately, though it framed her cheeks and chin rather well, softening the strong lines of her face. Strands stuck out at odd angles and caught the light, striking copper sparks along the rich dark strands.

Her face lacked the pale perfection he associated with noblewomen, too. In fact, her cheeks carried a high, bright flush that made her look as if she'd been exercising...or perhaps drinking...though she seemed sober enough in other respects.

She wasn't wearing a fortune in silk, either—and though her armor might well have cost as much, it was currently spattered in mud and blood, underlining the functionality of its simple elegance rather explicitly. Whoever she was, she'd seen battle or she was a complete and utter failure when it came to grooming.

All evidence to the contrary, however, he couldn't envision her fighting.

She didn't stand as aggressively as the few women warriors he'd met, but instead balanced lightly on the balls of her booted feet. Her expression lacked the belligerence he associated with women trying to prove themselves the equal of any man in a fight...nor was it the calm stoicism of a woman who'd learned to carefully discipline each thought and motion as many, maybe even most, seasoned warriors—men or women—eventually did.

This girl's face looked more than a bit pensive, in fact, in spite of the smile that still quirked the corners of her mouth. The smile warmed the surface of her tarnished silver eyes, but something else remained beneath the humor, something vulnerable and deeply pained.

The distress in her expression paired with the slightness of her physique might easily have combined to create an aura of fragility, yet somehow they didn't.

The girl gave a faint drop and lift of her chin. "How did you know?" she asked, her voice hovering somewhere in between curiosity and suspicion.

"Duncan sent word," Alistair admitted a bit reluctantly. He could only imagine her reaction if she knew what he'd just been thinking.

As it was, she simply stood and stared at Alistair, a faint frown furrowing her high, smooth forehead.

"I'm Elan" she said at last. Her voice seemed to catch a bit...not at all like the proud tone with which every noblewoman Alistair had ever met—nor the challenging one every warrior for that matter—proclaimed herself.

"Right..." he eyed her speculatively, "That was the name. Well, as the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you as you prepare for the Joining."

"I look forward to working with you," Elan said.

"You do? Huh. That's a switch." Alistair couldn't remember the last time his presence had been anything other than a fact to be borne...usually with rather ill-grace. No, wait, he could. It was when Duncan had welcomed him into the Grey Wardens. "Might as well get on with it, then. Let's collect the other recruits and head back to Duncan."

"I've already met Daveth," Elan informed him. "He said he would head back to the Warden tent."

"Right, that cutpurse Duncan conscripted. Not sure what Duncan sees in him, to be honest." Alistair said with a conspiratorial shrug. "Well, the knight is likely to be in the middle of devotions...this way."

Alistair began walking west.

Elan was pleasantly surprised by how easy and natural it felt to fall into step beside him.

As they passed a rather grim-looking cluster of men on pallets, a man wailed, "The Grey Wardens will die! The king will die! We'll all die!" Elan felt the words reverberate ominously down her spine...and swallowed hard. She looked to the plain, harried woman who'd been dabbing a cool cloth against the man's forehead. "Is it possible this man has important information?"

The woman shrugged, looking skeptical. "The commander who brought him in didn't seem to think so."

Elan gave Alistair a questioning glance. The answer she saw reflected in his eyes was clear—whether the commander was right or not, no one was likely to question his judgement just because a junior Grey Warden and a raw recruit felt a bit nervous...and, if by some miracle they did manage to gain the man a hearing, he was hardly likely to be coherent at the time. Their best course of action hadn't changed—except to become more urgent. They needed to gather their group and complete this mysterious ritual.

Elan sighed and turned away, only to jump at the sound of a low sibilant hiss aimed in her direction.

A very naked and dirty man sat cross-legged inside a nearby cage, his face pressed up to the bars. He proceeded to explain the guards had mistaken him for a deserter when they'd caught him in the midst of an attempted robbery. But, he insisted, surely he didn't deserve to go without food and water indefinitely—especially when his guard had both at his disposal.

Elan rolled her eyes and approached the bored-looking guard, only to be immediately assaulted with a spiel of complaints about the monotony of guarding a prisoner. Elan blithely informed him the prisoner in question had asked for food and water.

The guard was predictably unsympathetic.

"You just finished telling us this man could be executed at any time," Elan prompted. "Don't you think he deserves a last meal?"

The guard's mouth worked in silence, making him look rather like a fish, but he handed the food over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Plain fare gives as much pleasure as a costly diet, while bread and water confer the highest possible pleasure when they are brought to hungry lips." --Epicurus


	3. Some Glow of Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair is Elan's hero, and takes time to tell her of a few more.

The smell of the bread far too forcefully reminded Elan how long it had been since she and Duncan had last stopped and eaten. Doing her best to ignore the urge to rip into the food herself, Elan thrust the items into the cage.

Alistair seemed unreasonably amused by the audible chorus of grumbles and growls her stomach produced, though he made no comment. Elan was too embarrassed by her unladylike condition to draw attention to it by asking what about it he found so damn funny, though she did wish he'd explain.

"Maker's blessings upon you!" The thief said fervently. "Here...that key I was talking about...I still have it—"

"The guards didn't find it when they stripped you?" Elan asked to distract herself from the state of her stomach.

"I swallowed it," the prisoner said around a mouthful of bread. It was a minor miracle he didn't choke in the process. "But...it's...uh...come back into my possession since then."

"That's disgusting!" Elan said, wrinkling her nose up in a way that made her look like a little girl pretending to be a grown and finicky lady...and fooling no one in the process.

"And an excellent party trick, I'll bet," Alistair contributed with an air of trying to be helpful. Elan rolled her eyes at him, but her lips tilted up at the corners.

"Yes, well," the prisoner mumbled, taking another bite before he swallowed the first, "do you want the key or not?"

Elan grimaced and held out her hand.

"Take it and use it in good health," the prisoner said, managing to drop it into her palm while pulling the cork out of the flask.

"Considering where that came from, we'd better hope we aren't the only ones in good health," Alistair chuckled, only to give way to full-fledged laughter as Elan repeated her disgusted face to the accompaniment of the loudest series of growls and grumbles he'd ever had the honor of hearing a stomach produce.

In spite of his amusement, however, or perhaps because of it, Alistair pulled her over to the tent that had been set up to feed the masses.

"What about the ritual?" Elan protested, almost inaudibly, over the continued rumbling of her stomach.

"Part of my responsibility is to make sure that you're prepared for it," Alistair retorted. A strange look flitted over his face. "Well, as prepared as you can be, anyway," he added. "You won't be any good to the Wardens—or to anyone, really—if you keel over in a faint."

He sat her down on a bench in the corner and disappeared, soon returning with a loaf of bread much fresher than the one she'd just given away tucked under one arm, two bowls of stew balanced precariously on a palm, a thick, crumbly wedge of cheese resting in the crook of an elbow, and two tankards of ale clutched together at an awkward angle in his other hand.

"Well, now," Elan said, feeling better than she'd felt for days, "aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

"I live to serve," Alistair replied, wiggling his eyebrows, which, as intended, made her laugh.

Elan practically inhaled the food he handed her, but he must have been hungry as well, because he nearly kept pace with her, rather to her surprise. In fact, he managed to eat and talk at the same time, while she was far too focused on the food to do more than ask the occasional question just to prove she was listening.

He told her the story of the First Blight and of how the Grey Wardens had come into existence with the sole purpose of bringing it to an end, flying into battle on the backs of griffons and killing the archdemon. He told her that the King—and, what might perhaps be worse, Loghain—were skeptical that this surge of activity heralded the beginning of a Blight because no one had laid eyes on the archdemon. "At least, not yet," he said grimly. "But...it might be hiding...Duncan's sure this is the real thing, and I believe him." Elan, too, didn't think Duncan the type to panic or exaggerate, and that worried her more than she wanted to acknowledge.

By unspoken agreement, they returned to the topic of the Grey Wardens in the abstract. Alistair told her of Weisshaupt Fortress, the main seat of all Grey Wardens throughout Thedas, a beautiful and mystical aerie where griffons had once been born and bred...more than a thousand miles away...so far it might as well be a thousand years.

Elan fetched more bread, replenished their tankards, and thought that while the life she had been given was not the one she wanted, it might turn out not to be so bad...as long as she didn't think about...

"Speaking of the Wardens," she said, hastily returning to the table, "there are more here than just the two of you and three recruits, I assume?"

"Oh, sure," Alistair said. "The main group's encamped with the rest of the army, that's why you haven't seen them."

"I take it Duncan's camped here to advise the King because he's in charge?" Elan asked.

"Got it in one," Alistair agreed. "Though Duncan would say being in charge doesn't mean much—not yet, anyway. He does the best he can with what little he has...and that includes me, I suppose."

"You obviously admire Duncan a great deal," Elan observed.

"What about you? What do you think of him?"

Elan mused this over for a few minutes. "He seems kind, if firm," she concluded at length.

"Fair enough," Alistair allowed. "He risked a lot of trouble with the Grand Cleric to help me. I spent years of my life in that Chantry, hopelessly resigned to my fate. He was the first person who cared what I wanted. I'll always be grateful to him."

"Maybe he thought you would be useful."

"Or maybe he's just a good man." Alistair snapped, offended on Duncan's behalf...in spite of the fact Duncan had gone out of his way more than once to emphasize that Grey Wardens were sometimes forced to do some pretty extreme things...and that he, Duncan, was no hero.

Elan mumbled something he thought might have been well at least someone is then.

"You know," Alistair continued without thinking, teetering on the conversational side of snide, "there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?"

"Probably too smart for you," she retorted calmly, refusing to be put in her place.

Alistair chuckled, his momentary anger fading into a more customary amusement. "Ah, but what does that make you?" he countered.

Elan gave a slight shrug. Here, in the bustling energy of the tent with a tankard of ale in her hand, she might as well have been at the tavern in Highever, crossing wits with Gilmore and her brother. "Just one of the boys."

"Sad, isn't it?" Alistair snickered, clearly enjoying the irony as much as she enjoyed the illusion.

And it was just that. An illusion. Elan shivered slightly, feeling her eyes burn. "I may never recover," she said, her tone a bit too serious to be flippant.

"Let's collect Jory and head back to Duncan," Alistair said softly. "I imagine he's anxious to get things started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Men that can have communication in nothing else can sympathetically eat together, can still rise into some glow of brotherhood over food and wine." --Thomas Carlyle

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the Dialogues in this fic are quoted from or modeled off of lines from DAO. I have tried to keep this to a minimum


End file.
